


Was That Good For You?

by lezzerlee



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Forced Orgasm, Gunplay, M/M, Public Sex, Rape Role-play, Restraints, Triggers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-17
Updated: 2011-05-17
Packaged: 2017-10-19 12:17:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/200773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lezzerlee/pseuds/lezzerlee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The guys partake in some rape role-play</p>
            </blockquote>





	Was That Good For You?

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally written for [cherrybina](http://cherrybina.livejournal.com)'s [Kink Fest](http://cherrybina.livejournal.com/211815.html)
> 
> It contains very triggery subject matter.

The low thud of bassy club music seeps out of the closed door behind him as he lights a cigarette. He’s not drunk, but well enough on the way that he’ll be taking the tube tonight instead of his car. A few fellow smokers linger outside the door. His kind are dwindling; soon he’ll be the only one out here dragging his lips over sweet death.  Damn cancer ads.

He’s halfway through the fag when he feels the familiar pressure of his bladder begging for release. He can’t be arsed to fight his way back through the crowd just to piss in a neglected (and quite frankly disgusting) restroom. So he stalks off down the alley to find a corner to relieve himself in.

He sidles up next to a bin and unzips himself. Savoring the release, he takes his time. Alcohol-influenced urination is the best. The sense of relief and the release of control, coupled with the sway of the world, is something to be enjoyed. He shakes himself off and is pleased that he managed not to get any on his shoes.

The click of a gun being cocked makes him freeze. He’s not even zipped himself up yet, but he brings his hands up to his sides in a placating gesture.

“Easy mate.” He says in a low drawl. His mind instantly runs through self defense scenarios, but he’s coming up blank on ones that won’t find him dead. His back is turned and he doesn’t know how far way the other person is.

Sneaky little bastard this one is. He didn’t even hear him approach. Eames is fairly aware of any situation and surroundings in his worst states, so this person is a pro. They’re not some would be mugger, or street kid, or gangster praying on whom they thought was an easy target.

Whoever it is, they haven’t made any demands yet. It’s unsettling. He’d give up his wallet, watch, valuables; whatever, it’s not a problem. Most of it is stolen anyway. He waits nervously. He has a lot of enemies.

“Hands against the wall.”

Male. Deep voice, and about two meters away. Eames wouldn't be able to move quickly enough to get the upper hand, or get away. He does as he’s told. The brick is cold and gritty beneath his fingers. He breathes in deeply, trying to keep calm. If he’s going to get out of this then he needs his head clear. The adrenaline is making the alcohol in his system fade.

“You can have my wallet if you’d like, mate, just...” 

He’s stalling, trying to give himself time, to think of a plan. Before he can finish his sentence his face is slammed into the wall. It’s not hard enough to break anything, but it’s painful none the less. He can feel the cold press of the gun muzzle against the back of his neck.  _That would be a shitty way to go_ , he thinks. Bleeding out through your throat takes time.

The guy doesn’t even say anything. Just lets his gun speak for him. He wants Eames to shut up. Eames grunts his understanding. He’s still facing away from his attacker, but now that the man is in close proximity; he has a chance. If he can get the gun away, he can turn the tables in his favor.

A hand snakes to the front of his trousers, pressing into his open fly. His body goes stiff automatically. His mind drawing a blank momentarily as he registers the intent. He snaps back, ready to fight but this guy is good; he’s a fucking mind reader, because before Eames can even think about twisting around, breaking the guy’s grip, taking the gun, he finds his arm twisted up behind his back and a bag is being slipped over his head.

“The fuck?” he shouts, but he’s being hauled to the ground roughly. His shoulder and knees slam into the concrete, tearing his pants. He braces with his one free hand but the guy is pressing his face into the alley floor with the gun, never letting his vice-like grip from his wrist.

“That’s it baby, fight me,” is hissed into his ear.

Eames fights. He can tell the guy is smaller than him so he tries to use his bulk to overpower, to push off the ground. But his move is countered. The man slips into position behind his back and jabbs right at the soft spot under his ribs. Eames' diaphragm jerks reflexively and he loses his breath. He falls to his side, kicking back, trying to catch a shin or a knee, but he only connects with air. The position pulls at his shoulder. The guy will not let go of his arm. 

He reaches back, trying to grab at anything but finds his other wrist caught because of it. All of his usual escape maneuvers are lost in his growing panic. Eames belatedly notes that the gun isn’t pressed to his head anymore, but he is helpless to do anything about it when he feels something tight wrap around both of his wrists. Zip ties. _Who the fuck carries around zip ties?_

Still on his side, arms pinned at his back, Eames feels a hand slip to his groin again. It presses firmly, cupping around his balls before dragged up across his dick. He sucks in a breath sharply, the fabric of the bag wet against his mouth, trapping his own hot breath against his lips. The hand twists the button of his fly and he feels the waist go slack.

Cold fingers press into the bare skin of his hip, just below his shirt. They skate up along his ribs before circling down over his stomach with a flat palm. The hand presses into his abdomen and travels excruciatingly slow, lower and lower before fingers dip below the waistband of his briefs. The man pauses, toying with the curls of his pubic hair.

The gun returns to the back of his neck, icy-cold and heavy.  Eames shivers at the sensation, the chill and his fear.

“It’s just you and me, now. I’m going to have so much fun with you.”

The hand slips out of the band of his underwear and Eames can hear the guy shuffle around. His blood is thundering in his ears and he’s straining to hear because he can’t see. He can’t see anything. He twitches when the hand returns pulling his shirt down, stretching it out. 

He doesn’t understand what’s going until he feels cool air hit bare skin and hears the ripping of fabric.  His shirt is being cut away, exposing his chest. The hand presses to his sternum and then moves out to the side, fingers sliding past his nipple. 

It perks up at contact, and with the cold. He’s overly sensitive with the lack of sight. When it’s pinched between the pads of two fingers he feels a tingling shock shoot through his system. The fingers twist, mingling the shock with pain. He doesn’t allow himself to groan, holding it together as much as he can, but  fuck it hurts.

The hand releases his nipple and slides down his stomach again. The fingers dip below the waist band, but instead of stopping they start to drag his briefs down. His pants are still on, caught under his hip. They only pull down so far, but it’s far enough. A tight grip circles around his dick, pulling him out over the lowered zipper of his pants. 

The grip is rough, too harsh, and the pressure hurts, sending waves of discomfort over him. His hips jerk back in pain but he can’t escape the grip. He’s held still, for a minute, just pressure, clenching. Then slowly the hand begins to move, up and down, maddeningly slow, and dry. 

He grits his teeth to keep from moaning, in pain, or in pleasure. He’s already getting hard from the contact, from the friction. Each pump makes his body defy him.

“Yeah, you like this don’t you? You’re hard for me,” the guy says right into his neck. 

Eames should headbutt him, break his nose, but he can’t. He can only focus on the steady rhythm of the fist around him. Moving his foreskin up and down. It feels so good. He lets out a strangled moan when the pace picks up. His nerves are on fire, his shoulders aching from their position, and his hip digging into the asphalt. 

The hand, unrelenting, just works him, faster and faster until his hips are pushing into it. Back and forth, trying to get more. And then a finger slips over the head of his cock. He gasps with pleasure. He needs more. Panting and sucking in wet cloth as he concentrates on each tug. 

“That’s it baby. I know you love it. I’m going to fuck you so hard. You’re going to come, and I’m going to fuck you until you come again.”

The voice is so low, so deep, it reaches straight through his gut, into his spine. He can feel everything: the pull of plastic at his wrists, the gravel against his skin, the cold air on his chest. He can smell his own arousal, the urine in the ally, the musk of the man holding him, working him in solid hands.

His orgasm comes with unexpected force. He’s jerking, gasping out  fuck, fuck, fuck into his mask. Gravel is embedded into his hip as his semen sprays up his stomach and over his attackers hand, cooling quickly on his skin. He doesn’t get a chance to recover before his pants are being pulled down forcefully. He’s flipped over onto his stomach, trapping his fluid between him and the ground. His waning erection grates over the cement and arms rest uncomfortably on his back. 

“Fuck yes. That’s it. I’m going to fill you up. You’re going to beg me to let you come.” 

The hand dips between his legs, smearing his own fluid over his thighs, before pressing in. He gasps, body going taught as a finger traces over his hole almost gently. It’s a disarming gesture, because at once a finger probes in, too dry, pushing past the ring of his muscle without mercy. 

He hisses at the burn. He’s not a virgin by any means, but without lube he’s unprepared. The finger crooks in relentlessly, brushing over his prostate which makes him groan. It’s too much, too fast.  He’s too aware of every move and the steady breathing of the other man.

And just as quickly as it had entered, the finger withdraws, leaving a dull ache in it’s wake. He’s breathing with effort, uncomfortable with his hands behind his back. One of the guy’s palm is still pushed down between his shoulder blades, holding him to the ground. He wouldn’t be able to get up easily without use of his hands, but it’s is there anyway, as warning. 

He feels the man shift position over him before he hears the distinct clink of a belt being unbuckled. Sweat breaks out across his body, because even though this man has told him directly what he was going to do, none of it was real until now. He’s wholly unprepared when cold metal brushes the inside of his thigh. The guy has the gun again, between his legs, urging them to spread wider.

“Open up for me,” the attacker says, low and smooth. As if he’s asking, as if they are just two people together and he’s not threatening Eames with bodily harm.

He complies, spreading his legs out, exposing himself even more. The gun drags up the inside of his right thigh and doesn’t stop. It sweeps over his testicles before gliding over his perineum and then up over his his anus. 

He nearly cries out at the sensation, at the cold fear gripping his chest, at the arousal building again traitorously in his stomach. The gun presses down harder causing him to tense, muscles twitching underneath the weapon.

He’s gasping now, breathing in short bursts, and he suddenly realizes he’s begging. "Please," and "no," tumbling out of his mouth. All he receives is a deep chuckle in return. But the gun leaves, replaced by hands spreading him wider, pushing his cheeks apart.

The wetness hitting his body makes him grind his hips into the ground. Spit slides down his crack slowly before it’s rubbed in by a rough finger. It’s not enough, it won’t be enough. The one finger is not enough to prepare him. He whines, or whimpers, or cries out; he can’t even tell anymore.

“Are you going to be tight for me? Or are you a fucking whore, loose and sloppy?”

Eames wishes he could get the mask off. So he could see, look over his shoulder and know when it’s going to happen. The waiting is what’s killing him. And the guy makes him wait. Makes him wonder when he’s going to push in. Makes him wait until he wants it; he wants him to be inside just to get it over with. 

Suddenly the man is. He’s pushing in hot and fast and making Eames stretch, making it burn. The spit only coats so much. Eames cries out, sucking in air desperately. His hips unsuccessfully jerk into the ground, trying to get away. 

He’s willing himself to relax, to make it better. The guy doesn’t stop, not until he’s fully seated, down to his base, hips flush against Eames' arse. The man pauses when he's fully inside him, like he’s giving Eames a chance to catch up.

“Fuck. So tight. I just want to stay like this, feel you twitch around me because you love this. You love me in you.”

The man starts rocking, sliding in and out with so much friction. Eames is forcing his mind blank. He’s forcing his focus to where they join, willing himself to relax around the intrusion. Each thrust draws out a weak moan. 

He’s getting hard again. The concentration makes him dwell on each thrust, trying to make it not painful but pleasurable instead. When his moans change pitch, the guy murmurs a "fuck yes" and pulls Eames up by the hips. Eames is relieved, his cock not trapped underneath him anymore, but his knees dig into the ground. The thrusting doesn’t stop. It just gets harder, faster. Bony hips snap forward, driving into him.

There’s a pause: all movement stops. Eames whines as the loss of rhythm. His cock is flushed, hard and aching, hanging between his legs. His attacker bends over him, pressing his clothed chest to Eames’ bare back. He reaches around, circling thin fingers around his throbbing cock and tugs lightly.

“Tell me you want it.”

Eames moans. He does want it. He wants the release. He wants to focus on the thrusts, to feel each one, to take back the pleasure. There’s still not enough lube, but he’s aching for the movement.

“Say please. Say you want it. Say you’ll give me anything.”

Eames whispers a please, and than another. He’s begging. He’s begging "please, please, please,"  because he needs it. The man releases his grip. He spits again: saliva drips around the dick buried inside Eames’ arse. The man pulls out slowly until just the tip of him is inside and than he plunges back in. 

Eames moans because the angle is right. His prostrate is stimulated on every thrust, sending waves of pleasure over him. He can feel the pressure building at the base of his spine.

“Fucking beg me to let you come.”

Eames begs. He want it; he's so close to his release. His moans are all fucks and  gods  and  _yes_ , over and over. And then the hand is back on him, stroking him with each push forward. Eames is teetering on the edge of bliss, so close. The guy fucking him is panting, straining now. He’s thrusting so fast, so hard, it’s obvious he is close too.   
  
Eames can’t let him come first; can’t let it end before he comes again. So he focuses on the pleasure, on the pain which has become nothing more than a dull background to the scene. One. Two. Three thrusts and he’s falling over the edge. He grunts, strangled, his voice choked inside the bag. His aching cock spasms in the man’s hand and spills everything he has left into the alley.

The guy thrusts, sharp and fast, a few more times before he’s crying out, releasing himself inside Eames. He can feel the wet bursts filling him up. The man collapses onto Eames’ back, grinding his shoulders and knees deeper into the gravel. He can feel the cock twitching inside him, shuddering out the last bits of orgasm.

The hazy gloss of post-orgasmic fog starts to lift from him and he can feel all the pain returning. He can feel his knees, sharp underneath his skin, pressed into tiny fragments of rock. He can feel his shoulders ache from their fixed position. He can feel the burn in his arse.

The man pulls out, leaving him open and wanting. His muscles flex and grasp at nothing. The cold, night air cools his sticky, sweat-slicked skin.

“That was perfect baby. Perfect,” the guy says. Eames can hear the belt clinking again, being done up. He lowers himself from his raised position. Dropping his hips down only to feel the warm slide of seminal fluid leaking from inside him.

He moans, unable to trap the fluid inside. He just has to sit there letting it drip out in a puddle between his legs. The bag over his head is wet with spit, sticking to his face.

The guy laughs. He says, “we should do this again some time.” 

Eames kneels for a few minutes, trying to recover his breath. He doesn't know if the man left or is just watching him. The guy was silent coming in, why not silent going out? He jumps when a hand is placed gently on his shoulder.

“Shhh,” Eames hears, and then the hand is moving to his neck, untying the bag and slipping it off. Eames blinks rapidly against the glare of the streetlights. He feels the hands drift gently down his arms, caressing along the way, and then he hears a snap as the ties are cut away. The blood returns to his fingers. He moans at the twinge in his shoulders as they regain their mobility.

The man moves in front of him, lifting his chin up and Eames quickly sees dirty, scuffed, knees of tailored pants before he’s looking into Arthur’s eyes. Arthur crouches down, brushing wet strands of Eames’ hair out of his eyes and holds his face between his palms. 

He dips down to kiss Eames, slow and steady. Eames hums against his mouth. After a moment Arthur pulls back and rests his forehead against Eames’ forehead.

“I have water and clothes in the car,” he whispers. 

Eames closes his eyes. He’s blissed out, fucked out. He’s tired. He’s going to hurt tomorrow. He’s going to feel every bruise and cut. He won’t be able to sit right for days.

“Was that good for you, Eames?”

Eames nods. “Yes,” he says. He sighs, laying his head on Arthur’s shoulder. 

“We need to do this again sometime.”

 


End file.
